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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677882">Reload</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nineteenseventy666/pseuds/nineteenseventy666'>nineteenseventy666</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Emperor (Band), Lords of Chaos (2018), Mayhem (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, it gets lighter later on i swear, multiple times :p, Øystein loses his shit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:35:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nineteenseventy666/pseuds/nineteenseventy666</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Intro</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This morning started like any other.  </p><p>The happy chirping of birds echoed outside as the long rays of sun poured into the room through the windows, while the stars were slowly dissolving in the light pink sky. Curse the lack of curtains. <em>It must be early in the morning</em>, thought Pelle.  </p><p>He lied there with his eyes open, the, oh so familiar, sight of acute-angled wooden ceiling greeting him. He's been lying there awake for some time already. Or maybe he's just woken up?   </p><p>He rolled off his dirty mattress, the rancid smell of decay hitting his nostrils. At this point, it could be some carcass buried between the wall and the mattress or the smell just seeped into the absorbent floor. Pelle sighed heavily and pulled himself into a sitting position. Another sigh and he pulled his malnourished body up, hence the dizziness. Rise and shine, as they say.  </p><p>He walked up to the window and glimpsed outside. It was a disgustingly pure spring morning. At this point it was inevitable; the cold months were over, and all life was waking up from its winter slumber. Dew was glimmering in the sunlight, the beautiful deep green of grass seemingly spilling into the forest that was just hundreds of meters away from their house. And the trees looked no longer dead; all leaves have returned to their cherished spot at the top of the trees, where just a few weeks ago, there were naked branches with layers of snow covering them. Ah, Dead could've sworn he was standing by this very window just a couple days ago, looking at a white dessert.  </p><p>Also, their van was gone.   </p><p>Pelle hummed in acknowledgment. He turned on his heel and hopped out of his room. He went down the stairs making as much noise as possible until he was standing in front of an empty kitchen. He peeked at the clock; it was close to six in the morning.  <br/>
He poured himself a glass of water and leaned on the counter. He was alone in the house, so it seemed. Not that his bandmates would normally be up so early. (And neither would he, but that's what happens when you fall asleep at five in the evening.) But, Jan had gone to visit his family earlier this week and if the car was gone, Øystein must've left too. The thought of absolute freedom made a grin slip onto his face, but it disappeared just as quickly; There weren't many things he wouldn't do just because there were people in the house. How boring.  </p><p>He put the glass down and went back up to his room. He stumbled around for a moment before setting down at his beloved desk. In front of him, there was a dirty paper with letters looming at the top, reading: 'Life Eternal'. Pelle stared blankly at the page as if frozen, trying to find in the void that was his mind any memory of this alien title.  <br/>
When he snapped out of it, he grabbed a pen. It was the name of a new song he was writing. He even scraped down the first verses of the song, just yesterday. Or a few days ago. Whatever.  </p><p><em> A dream of another existence, you wish to die  </em> </p><p><em> A dream of another world, you pray for death  </em> </p><p><em> To release the soul, one must die  </em> </p><p><em> To find peace inside, you must get eternal  </em> </p><p>He brought the pen to his lip and bit it unconsciously, while his thoughts unfolded. It felt like he knew the rest of the lyrics, but they were loathing somewhere in the back of his brain, waiting to be scooped out. He just needed to put himself in the right mood.  <br/>
He leaned down to grab a tape from one of the boxes that were lying by his feet signed 'DEMOS' and 'MUSIC'. Almost as if the sweat-and-blood-fueled demos of various rising bands weren't music...   </p><p>Øystein always criticized his lack of will to organize his collection somehow,<em> 'I don't know! Put them on a shelf or something, they'll get damaged if you just keep them in a mess like this!'</em>, but Pelle could not care less. He dived his hand into the sea of plastic to grab the one and only: Bathory's 'Blood Fire Death'. He knew it'd get his brain going morbid places.  </p><p>When the soothing sound of a classic guitar filled the room, like the calm before the storm, Pelle dropped back onto his chair, feeling the music clear his mind instantly. He grabbed the pen once again, this time with intent. He scrapped a sentence down.  </p><p><em> I am a mortal, but am I a human?  </em> </p><p>He swallowed uneasily. Suddenly, he remembered perfectly how he felt when he initially thought of this song. Of <em>His</em> song.<br/>
And as 'A Fine Day to Die' blasted from his old stereo, he wrote the rest of the lyrics down in a flash, not caring for rhymes. The convenience of being a black metal artist!</p><p><em> How beautiful life is now when my time has come  </em> </p><p><em> A human destiny, but nothing human inside  </em> </p><p><em> What will be left of me when I'm dead?   </em> </p><p><em> There was nothing when I lived  </em> </p><p><em> What you found was eternal death, no one will ever miss you  </em> </p><p>He sat straight on his chair and once again stared out of the window. The forest stared back at him.  </p><p>There were a million thoughts passing through his mind, and yet, he couldn’t make out a single rational sentence. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. There were only a couple voices that seemed to repeat themselves like a broken record, screaming in his head in an overwhelming union.  </p><p><em>It’s time, it’s time, it’s time. </em>  </p><p>What could he do? It was almost like destiny. Like his plan was coming to life. He was alone in the house and the shiny new knife that he’d boughten specially for this occasion was waiting for him in his drawer, calling him quietly.  </p><p>He lifted his eyelids slowly, trying not to focus on his hammering heart or the blood rushing in his head. The picture of him, slitting his own veins on a bed of grass and leaves appeared crystal clear in his mind, fogging any thoughts that were begging him to stay where he was sitting and calm down.  <br/>
The chaos allied when he stood up. He knew what he had to do.</p><p>This morning would not turn out like any other.  </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dead was breathing heavily. A burning sensation washed over his whole body as fierce, almost stabbing, pain rang in both of his forearms. His eyes devoured the sight of deep empty cuts in his paper-pale skin that filled with blood in a matter of seconds. Wide-eyed, he inhaled shakily, focused on the gaping slits in his wrists.  He’s done it. </p><p>He laughed to himself like a maniac, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Tears of pain, but also of joy. When he let his hands hang down his sides, his palms throbbed terribly. He could feel warm fluid gush over his cold fingers. He’s done it. </p><p>He lied down in the dirt, inhaling the delicious fresh air. He’d be gone soon. </p><p>Finally, he was at peace. Blissful warmth filled his head, as his body seemed to fight for survival. It’d be over soon. </p><p>But apparently, not soon enough. </p><p>His wish was to die deep in the forest, away from people. That was the initial idea, at least. But he didn’t know that dying of blood-loss would take so god damn long. </p><p>Then, an idea creeped into his mind: the shotgun. They had a shotgun in the house. </p><p>Pelle got up, feeling a rush of determination. Even the loss of the essential fluids and his drastically weakened state could not stop him. Every ounce of him was full of adrenaline as he walked back to the house. </p><p>He busted the door open and then locked it behind him just in case. He got the shotgun and grabbed it as firmly as he could with his open veins, as if he wanted to take the weapon with him to the afterlife. He crawled onto his mattress and leaned against the wall. With trembling hands, he put the cool, metal barrel in his mouth. He exhaled shakily, trying to force his stiff fingers to pull the trigger. In his thoughts, he laughed, but all that came out was a quiet whine.</p><p>
  <em>Click</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Click</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Click, click, click , click...</em>
</p><p>His hands began to shake again, and the gun fell out of his grip. The neck hit the mattress with a muffled thump.</p><p>He stood up abruptly but fell back down just as quickly. With thousands of curses on his lips, he took the gun and creeped his way to where spare bullets should be. He opened the little box and frantically, with his limp hands, attempted to put the ammunition in the weapon, just like Jørn did any time he spotted an elk get far enough from the safety of the forest, close to their porch. But Jørn didn’t have to do it with his wrists slit open and blood streaming steadily all over his hands. So, needless to say, Pelle wasn’t able to do this right now. Angrily, he shoved the box into the ground and grunted in frustration. He felt like screaming, crying, cursing, but foremost, he was starting to regret everything. And yet, all these intense emotions were drowned out by a sense of tiredness that was slowly shutting his whole body down.   </p><p>“Pelle!”   </p><p>Oh no.    </p><p>“Pelle, you lazy fuck, open the door!”   </p><p>No, no, no.    </p><p> </p><p>Øystein was boiling with rage. That son of a bitch won’t even stand up to open the fucking door. Why would he even lock it in the first place?! Øystein remembered vividly leaving them unlocked, in case of this exact scenario. He ran his gaze along the walls looking for a rock, or an open window maybe... </p><p>Ah! There WAS an open window. On the first floor. </p><p>He searched with his eyes for the ladder they kept outside. His whiny bassist always complained that it was like an invitation for burglars, but here they were: like the said burglar, Øystein had to break into his own god damn house. He dragged the ladder along with him and then, on wobbly legs, climbed the window. With a loud thud, he gracefully entered the house. </p><p>“Hi, you fucking prick!” he called into the empty hallway. There came no answer. </p><p>Øystein stopped in front of the vocalist’s room and pushed the door gently. </p><p>“You jerkin’ off again?” he scoffed, expecting to see Pelle lying lifelessly, or drawing without any care in the world. Either way, he was about to wreck his shit. </p><p>And actually, he was lying lifelessly. Quite literally. </p><p>“Fuck. Fuck,” he murmured under his breath. His heart stopped for a second as he examined the gruesome scene in front of him. There was blood everywhere. And a knife was lying next to Pelle’s boney hand. </p><p>He walked up to the vocalist. His eyes were half-lidded, and his gaze was fixated in one direction. He was scarily pale. He’s slit his wrists. </p><p>Øystein couldn't tell whether he was breathing or not, so he put his fingers on Pelle’s neck to check for pulse. </p><p>“Thank fuck,” he whispered, in relief. His heart was still beating. </p><p>He ran downstairs and grabbed the phone. He could barely hold it from all the nerves, but he managed to make a call. </p><p>“112, what’s your emergency?” a woman's voice echoed from the telephone. </p><p>“Yes, my... My friend just cut his veins and he’s losing a lot of blood.” </p><p>He answered all her questions and then explained as best as possible where their house is, until the lady on the line asked: </p><p>“Is your friend secured? Is he safe now?” </p><p>Øystein’s heart dropped. </p><p> </p><p>Pelle could hear his bandmate talk on the phone downstairs. He didn't have much time.  </p><p>He had many thoughts along the lines of 'why is he here?' or 'why can't I just die already?', but what could he do. </p><p>By this time, he didn't feel his left pinky anymore. His whole hands were tingling and with each movement, he was getting colder and colder. He just needed to lose some more blood. </p><p>He reached out for the knife. He could barely hold it. But, with the little strength that he had left, with one swift movement he guided the blade across his throat. And again; Stabbing pain, washing over his whole body. Warm fluid in his mouth. And a waterfall of sudden warmth that contrasted with the gravely chills that were going down his spine the whole time. He let his head fall against the wall in consent.  </p><p> </p><p>Øystein let go off the phone immediately, which bounced back on the cable, as a faint ‘Halo? Please stay on the line.’ could be heard. </p><p>The Norwegian ran upstairs and jumped back onto the crime scene. Pelle was sitting on his mattress, a red slit across his throat dripping profusely. The knife in his hand. </p><p>“Motherfucker!” Øystein cried out. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t fucking happening. </p><p>He grabbed Pelle under his shoulder, then his knees, and lifted him up. Fortunately, he was lighter than Øystein had expected. The Swede tried to say something, but all that got out of his mouth was blood and a quiet wheeze.   </p><p>Øystein brought him downstairs and put him down, so he could sit against the wall. He grabbed the phone in desperation.   </p><p>“He’s slit his neck, too. He’s bleeding really badly,” he said to the phone with a shaky voice, still looking at Pelle, which seemed to be slowly slipping into unconsciousness.   </p><p>“Please stay calm, the ambulance is on its way,” she said, her voice steady. “Do you have anything to secure the wound?”   </p><p>“Uh, no,” Øystein blurted out, cursing in his mind that they never cared to buy any bandages, or anything of that sort. “Or wait, there's a rag in the kitchen.”   </p><p>He grabbed the piece of cloth and crouched in front of the vocalist. He pressed against the cut, from the bottom, in attempt to close it. He blinked a few times, frowning when he felt the warmth against his skin, forcing himself to keep his hand in one place. The fabric was soaking with red.   </p><p>“I think it’s bleeding less.”   </p><p>“Okay. The ambulance is on its way. Please, stay on the line.”   </p><p>Øystein exhaled nervously and fixated his sight on Pelle. He was looking at him.   </p><p>“You fucker,” the guitarist groaned. </p><p>“Hey. Hey, stay with me here,” he said, when Pelle closed his eyes again. “Look, I know we had our arguments, and fights, and shit, but you’re in my band and I’m not going to just let you die,” he said in a somber tone. “Mayhem is just starting to get big and we won’t make it without you. You hear me?” Of course, he didn’t expect any answer.   </p><p>“You... You hear me? You’re important. We need you.”   </p><p>The words hanged in the air along with the metallic stench of blood.   </p><p>“You remember that one time when Jan got so piss drunk, he sold our amp for beer?" Øystein asked, hoping that maybe, if he keeps talking, Pelle will stay awake for longer. "And I got so pissed I smashed a bottle on his empty head. He was bleeding like shit, remember? And you and other guys were laughing your asses off and he tried to get me back. You fuckers wouldn’t even help me!” he chuckled sadly.  </p><p>Pelle opened his eyes sluggishly and looked somewhere in front of him. Øystein kept going.   </p><p>“So then we had to get his ass to the hospital, right? Cause’ I cut his eyebrow open. You and Metalion went with us, because otherwise he’d beat the shit out of me. And they sewed his ugly face back together. In the end nothing happened, and he was okay. You remember that?” Øystein held back tears, but he was smiling. It wasn’t like him, getting all emotional...   </p><p>“Or all these times you fucking rocked the stage. You remember how all these morons screamed your name when you threw that pig head at them? Or when we did shows in Germany, or fucking wherever, and everyone went crazy for us? They fucking love you, Pelle,” he made a short pause. “You’re the best front man I could ever wish for and I have no idea what we would do without you.”   </p><p>“No, fuck, you’re not just the best front man. You’re my friend, okay? You’re my friend and I’m not going to let you die, you hear me?” Øystein choked out, noticing that the rag was completely drenched in blood by now.    </p><p>The dying man slowly turned his head in Øystein's direction.   </p><p>“That’s too bad,” he smirked weakly.    </p><p>The Norwegian furrowed his eyebrows and exhaled slowly. He didn't expect Pelle to go along. Still, he wanted to prevent him somehow from losing his consciousness. He wanted to believe everything was going to turn out just fine. He wanted to believe so damn bad.    </p><p>"Shut up. You're going to be okay. It's going to be okay."   </p><p>Øystein let go off the phone to put his other hand on Pelle's forehead. He was cold like ice. He let his palm slip down to his arm, which he gripped firmly. He was thinking of something to say, but he felt the lump in his throat grow and he didn't want the vocalist to hear him break down. Because everything was going to be okay.  </p><p>Pelle was drifting away. He saw the guitarist's face so close to his and suddenly, he had dozens of mixed feelings. He wanted to tell him to let go off him already. But he also wanted to thank him. His stomach was flipping in regret and his head was spinning. Although, that was probably due to the lack of blood.   </p><p>A part of him wanted to say 'I don't want to leave you. I'm sorry'. Yet, he wished to be gone already so badly. Not that there was much he could to either way.  </p><p>Then, the sound of sirens filled the room...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That morning was long over. It was evening. </p><p>“Hey,” Manheim peeked inside the house. He stepped inside just to see Øystein pathetically sprawled across the kitchen table. </p><p>The man turned his head in the door’s direction with an expression far too tired to look surprised. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” he asked, sounding somewhat hostile. Not that it was his intention. </p><p>“Eh,” the blonde bit his tongue, suddenly not sure of what he was standing on. “I, ah... Jørn called me, cause’ Jan called him to tell him that you called...” </p><p>“And he’s probably too busy fucking his girlfriend to even show up, huh?” Øystein spat out, fixing his posture on the squeaking kitchen bench. </p><p>“No. Um,” God, talking to Øystein when he was irritated felt like poking a grizzly bear with a stick. A rapid grizzly bear. “I don’t know. But I heard what happened and I figured I’d see...Er, I mean check on you.” </p><p>The guitarist measured him with his eyes, somewhat skeptical. “Thanks,” he cleaned his throat. ”They took Pelle, but I don’t know where. I checked the neighborhood hospital, but he isn’t there,” he said thoughtfully, in a way that made it look like he was talking with himself, rather than his friend. </p><p>“So, he’s in the city?” </p><p>“I don’t know!” Øystein growled, emerging from the bench with his hands thrown in the air.  </p><p>“Sorry,” a small awkward cough. “I mean, the ambulance blokes told me they’ll inform me at some point, but man, it’s been <em> two days </em>.” </p><p>Manheim shifted uncomfortably in his position, looking for something to lean against. </p><p>“Maybe they lost my contact info or something. I don’t know how this works... I mean I gave them my name when I was calling, so they should...” </p><p>“Shit!” </p><p>“What?” Øystein asked, caught off guard. But then, he noticed the large brown puddle of dry blood that his friend’s stepped into. “Oh. Yeah. I cleaned up a bit, but it doesn’t come off easily,” he sighed, the idea of having to clean all the blood from Pelle’s room later making him want to sprawl across the table all over again. </p><p>“Look,” the blonde stepped to the side cautiously, as if the dry liquid would stick to his shoes and drip all over the place. “I can help you clean,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “And if they won’t call til’ tomorrow we can go look for Per together. I mean, it’s not like they wouldn’t inform you if... something happened to him.” <em> If he died. </em> </p><p>“Man, you’re the best,” Øystein said, relieved. “So, you’re free tomorrow?” </p><p>“You’ve got a whole lot of free time when you ain’t in a band,” his friend grinned. </p><p> </p><p>They stood in the doorway. Nobody bothered to close the door after what happened. </p><p>“Jesus,” Manheim muttered, looking around the room. Blood, blood, blood, just about everywhere. </p><p>Equipped in a scrub and a bucket full of warm water with soap, Øystein stepped in fearlessly. The room smelled of decomposition, as always. </p><p>“This is the final battle, and I have a mere mop. This quest is a death wish!” the blonde exclaimed, rising his weapon of choice. Øystein just turned around, giving him a <em> look </em>. </p><p>He walked up to the dead’s lair, his stomach turning in the worst way possible. The knife was still there, shining strangely in the yellow light of the lightbulb that was hanging from the canted ceiling. He was about to throw up. </p><p>“I think we need to throw that out,” Manheim suggested cautiously, looking at the bloody mess over Øystein’s shoulder. </p><p>“Yeah, I guess so,” he mumbled in response. “Can you take it downstairs? I’m going to start with the cleaning.” </p><p>“Sure,” his friend shrugged. They threw all the covers onto the ground. </p><p>The moment Manheim lifted the mattress, the smell of decay hit them both in the faces. The fetid carcasses of various rodents were rotting peacefully in the corner this whole time. All their tiny bodies stiff, with their paws stretched in different directions. Their eye sockets empty, filled with white sludge, that Øystein wished not to notice. A lot of holes, cuts and gashes of diverse shapes and sizes. And the maggots. Man, the maggots. Wriggling and squirming, as if they wanted to hide from their sight. </p><p>He was about to <b> throw up. </b> </p><p>“Fucking hell!” Manheim clamored, taken aback. He almost got overpowered by the mattress in his hands, but he managed to stabilize himself. “I’m outta here!” he tolled, clear disgust in his voice. He proceeded to the hallway quickly.  </p><p>Øystein, just as repulsed, rushed to open the window. The brisky air circulated through the room, taking the stink of rot along with it. Then, he grabbed one of the trash bags he prepared (Just in case. With a great purpose, apparently) and started collecting the miniature corpses. Forcing himself to pick up the ones that were in a far state of decomposition was not an easy task. When he thought about how the vocalist have slept there every night, he felt sick. Fucking hell indeed. </p><p>When he was done, he retrieved to the window. The stench was awful. </p><p>Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. On the desk to his right, there was a ton of papers tossed around. But there was one placed on the top of this mess as if it was meant to be noticed. Øystein walked up to it slowly, enchanted. </p><p><em> “Excuse the blood, but I have slit my wrists...” </em> </p><p>His eyes run down the lines eagerly, his heart clutching a bit more with every word.  </p><p> </p><p>“I bought a new knife,” Pelle smiled impishly, but there was a melancholic glimpse in his eyes. “It’s very sharp.” </p><p>Jan gave him a lopsided look, eyeing first the blade, then the vocalist. It was a usual sight, really. Nothing special about it. </p><p>“Okay?” the drummer answered, not quite bothered by his words.  </p><p>Dead just laughed hollowly. </p><p>He turned to the forest, his steps lighter than usual. Jan watched him move further and further away, thinking somewhere in the back of his mind about how this fuck-up of a vocalist ended up in their band. </p><p>When he returned that night, there were numerous wounds, craved deep into his hands. Red streams running down his forearms, staining his clothes and dripping onto the floor. </p><p>“Hey, <em> asshole </em>,” Øystein scoffed. “You’re gonna ruin the floor.” </p><p>No answer. Just quiet steps, echoing in the spacious room. </p><p>“Hey,” he repeated, standing up. He stepped in front of the Swede. A pair of intense blue eyes looked at him tauntingly, the black circles around them making Dead look like a corpse. How ironic. </p><p>He grabbed both his hands and pulled them to himself. Pelle pulled back, groaning at the stinging sensation of stretched cuts. They exchanged irked glances. </p><p>“You know it’s down the road, not across the street, right?” the guitarist jeered with a sour smile.  </p><p>The vocalist widened his eyes for a spilt of seconds, as if the words meant to him way more than they were supposed to. </p><p>“Fuck off,” he hissed through clenched teeth and pushed the shorter man aside, just forcefully enough to make him stumble upon his own legs. </p><p> </p><p><em> “...I didn't come up with this now, but seventeen years ago." </em> </p><p>Øystein clenched his fingers on the paper, feeling that his hands were beginning to tremble. Shit. He wasn’t so supportive of Pelle after all, was he? </p><p>They all knew he was really fucking depressed. Or at least they noticed but decided to dismiss it. He was taking about suicide often. So often, that at some point they grew tired of it and began to act impatient with him. And he was getting progressively worse and worse, but they just never reached out. All these days he spent just lounging on his filthy floor. All these times he almost cut himself to death. All these times he wondered out loud about taking his own life. And yet, they never cared to intervene. So, he did... </p><p>“What’s that?” he suddenly heard from behind him.  </p><p>Without a second thought, he folded the paper and threw it into the plastic trash bag. </p><p>“It’s his suicide note,” the guitarist answered with a blank voice.  </p><p>Manheim looked like he was thinking of something to say. “Let’s get this over with,” Øystein commended, before any conversation even started. </p><p> </p><p>After long hours of brushing, washing, moping and scrubbing, they were finally done. The house was clean. More or less. </p><p>Both collapsed on the couch downstairs with a loud thump. Manheim let out a dragged-out sigh. </p><p>“At last... we’re finished...” he voiced dramatically, throwing a hand over his forehead. Øystein chuckled, letting his head fall onto the back of the seat. </p><p>He turned his head to the side to glimpse through one of the dusty windows situated by the entrance door. “It’s pretty late,” he noticed. “If you want to, you can sleep here.” </p><p>The blonde followed the guitarist’s eyes to glare upon the pitch-black outdoors. </p><p>“Yeah, no. It’s okay,” he declined. “I came with my car,” he pointed at where his vehicle should be, but it was too dark to see it. </p><p>Øystein nodded lazily, ready to fall asleep at the spot. “Sure? The roads are bumpy as shit,” he mumbled, suppressing a yawn. </p><p>“Yeah,” Manheim answered, standing up to stretch. “If you don’t hear a loud screech from the woods in the next hour, I’m probably fine.” </p><p>“Okay,” the guitarist snickered. The blonde went out of his vision to put on his coat. “Thanks a lot for helping,” he added, not bothering to turn around. He heard a creak behind him. </p><p>“Any time, buddy,” Manheim said, before the wind slammed the door behind him. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em> Brrng </em> <em> !  </em> <em> Brrng </em> <em> ! </em> </p><p>“Huh? Uh...” </p><p><em> Brrng </em> <em> !  </em> <em> Brrng </em> <em> !  </em> <em> Brrng </em> <em> ! </em> </p><p>“The phone... phone... ugh, fuck...” </p><p>Øystein sat up slowly, rubbing his still glued with sleep eyes. He ran his hand over his forehead to get sticky hair out of his face and then stood up swiftly, each ring of the phone feeling like a splash of icy water. It was light outside already. He forgot to warm up the house yesterday, so when he threw aside the blanket he slept under, the frigid morning air bit into his skin. </p><p><em> Brr- </em> </p><p>“Hello? Uh, Who- Who's there?” he stuttered sleepily, feeling chills wash over his body. </p><p>“Can you come pick me up?” </p><p>The barely awake Norwegian narrowed his eyes, trying his best to process the words coming from the handset.  </p><p>“Wh- Pelle?” he mumbled confused. “Pick- Where are you?” </p><p>“I’m out. Can you pick me up?” </p><p>Øystein blinked a few times, annoyed by his stinging eyes. He turned to the windows, then back to the phone. </p><p>“Sure, but, where are you?” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So intially, this fic was meant to be a one shot, but I'm going to write a couple chapters more. Generally I'm more of a reader than a writer, but I hope there'll be people who can enjoy this chaotic story :pp</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Norwegian stepped out of his rusty car, looking around for any sight of the vocalist. It was a chilly, yet sunny noon. There were almost no clouds, what made the sky look just like a calm water mirror, with no distortions, reflecting the busy streets of the city. Well, as busy as a random Norwegian neighborhood could be. </p><p>“Øystein!” </p><p>He turned around. Pelle was standing by a phone booth, looking even more miserable than usual. The long gush on his throat has been sewn; it was slightly red in the core, surrounded by a purplish ring. The bruise had so many shades, it almost looked like a benzine spill on marble. His hair was tied, and he was wearing only a hospital gown and his slightly blood-stained jacket thrown over it. And his winter shoes. He resembled a protagonist of some poorly made zombie apocalypse movie. </p><p>“What happened?” Øystein shouted as he walked towards Pelle, not sure how else could he react to this upsetting picture. </p><p>“I got thrown out,” he answered reluctantly. </p><p>“What do you mean ‘thrown out?’” the guitarist asked, puzzled. </p><p>The vocalist sighed, crossing his arms both from cold and annoyance. “They stitched me and when I woke up, I said I want out. But they didn’t let me, because I wasn’t ‘stable enough’,” he quoted mockingly. “But today I said I want <em> out </em>. So, I’m out.” His usual calm, low voice didn’t match his scowl.  </p><p>“Okay, whatever. Good to know you’re alive,” the Norwegian rushed, guiding Pelle in the direction of his car. “Where the hell are your clothes? It’s like 10 degrees,” he asked, shooting a quick glance at Pelle’s bare legs, which just like his hands, were covered in scabs and scars. </p><p>“These morons threw them out, because it’d be ‘unsanitary’ to keep them!” </p><p>“Oh." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t even noticed when he fell asleep on the couch. When he woke up, his mind felt cloudy. At least the overbearing exhaustion was gone. </p><p>His gaze traweled down, expecting to see the dirtied hospital gown, so needles to say, he panicked when he saw a sweater and a pair of jeans. "<em>You changed just after you arrived, idiot. It's not the hospital anymore." </em></p><p>The sweater wasn't his, yet it was a tad too big for him. Imagining how ridiculous Øystein must've looked in it, he smirked to himself.</p><p>He didn’t want to do anything. He lied there, trying his best not to think about anything.  </p><p><em> Fuuuck </em> <em> . </em> </p><p>He let his head loll to the side. The drugs were wearing off and the harsh reality was starting to hit him slowly but forcefully, like a church bell tolling 12 times in a row. Ding-dong, ding-dong, you’re alive, Per. </p><p>There was a ball of static growing in his chest, making his heart race. He was alive. Why?! How?! He almost died, again! And yet, he was still here. A deep inhale and the emotions were suddenly swallowed by a gaping dark hole. Emptiness, just for a second. </p><p>He closed his eyes. His temples were throbbing. He was still kind of high on painkillers and such, and god, what an awful feeling was it to sober up with your veins and throat stitched up and paining. </p><p>He rolled onto his side in an attempt to hide his face from the light. He let out some kind of pathetic whine, digging his nails into the armrest. Is this purgatory?  </p><p>“Are you okay?” asked a voice from above.</p><p>Pelle turned onto his back and glared at the blurred face above him. It had dark eyes, dark hair. The voice echoed in his head. Ah, it wasn’t the angel of death. It was just Øystein. </p><p>“Yeah,” he mumbled in response. He really wasn’t.  </p><p>The Swede sat up straight, his hand on his forehead. There was something he wanted to tell Øystein... Something important, yeah... Something important... Like his mother talking to him... His mother, his mother, hm... </p><p>“Oh, you ate the sandwich,” the guitarist noticed, picking up the plate he left for Pelle earlier. “How are you now?” </p><p>Pelle shrugged, kind of angry he lost his train of thoughts again. Since when was Øystein such a care bear, anyways. </p><p>“I mean, if you need to rest that’s fine.” The Norwegian wandered inside the kitchen to dump the plate in the sink. “But maybe you want to go for a walk?” </p><p>“A walk,” Pelle repeated blankly, the world sounding unfamiliar in his buzzing head. </p><p>“Yeah. A walk in the city.” </p><p>The Swede raised his eyebrows. City? Last time he checked, Kråkstad was a shithole in the middle of nowhere, where even dogs barked with their asses. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Look at these idiots, so fucking happy,” Øystein mocked a couple that they passed. His voice was supposed to sound disgusted by the display of love, like a voice of the Prince of Darkness that he was, but there was a visible smirk on his stupid face. </p><p>Pelle murmured something along the lines of ‘yeah’, but he wasn’t actually paying attention. </p><p>They took a few turns, digging deeper and deeper into the capital and further away from the van they came with. They were in Oslo, for some reason. Pelle hasn’t been there so many times. The city felt... some kind of way. It reminded him of his home city, although in his core he knew perfectly they were nothing alike. There was a lot of people passing, going in and out of shops. There were parents, children, groups of friends, lovers. He was running his eyesight from face to face, wondering if he was just like them. Just a few days ago he was still sure he was not human, but on this awful fueled by feelings day even this was nothing but a speculation. </p><p>Suddenly, Øystein stopped and he bumped into him. Before he could even complain, the guitarist walked up to a set of doors and took out a jingling bundle of keys. </p><p>They were standing by a corner of a building. The Swede measured the facade with his eyes, trying to find anything interesting about it. It was hard to see through the windows, but it appeared to be empty. </p><p>The door opened and the brunette dived into the darkness. Pelle followed. </p><p>The air inside was humid and it smelled of old walls. The Swede looked around curiously. There were hordes of dust hovering in the streak of light coming from the doorway. Deeper in the room, it was pitch black. And empty. </p><p>“Welcome to Hell,” Øystein phrased as a grin sprawled across his face.  </p><p>Pelle lingered with his eyes in the darkness before looking at him askingly. </p><p>“We haven’t even started preparing it or anything, but this is going to be a record store...” the guitarist explained. He rested his hands on his hips and looked around with a sigh. “I’m going to sell records of the bands I signed. Great, right?” He glimpsed behind him, seeking some kind of answer from the vocalist. When there was no response, he turned around. “What do you think?” </p><p>Suddenly, Pelle remembered perfectly what he was supposed to tell Øystein. He shuddered. “That’s... evil.” </p><p>“You’re damn right!” the Norwegian beamed. He stretched his hands in front of him in a devilish manner and made a step forward. “Helvete! The hell of Oslo! The lair of evil! The heart of black metal!” </p><p>Pelle chuckled, but seeing Øystein’s goblin-like expression, he had to laugh.  </p><p>“The heart of black fucking metal!” he screeched, before breaking into laughter again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They were in the van, on their way home, keeping up some meaningless conversation, which mostly consisted of Øystein bragging about how amazing his record store was going to turn out. At some point, when the scenery behind the window hypnotized him, Pelle lost his focus. They were passing an oat field, which seemed to drag for miles. It was sundown. The golden rays were trying to tear through the lustrous grain, making the whole scene look oversaturated. And the warm sky was getting darker and darker, as the twilight gradually turned into dusk. </p><p>“Well, we’re home.”  </p><p>The Swede blinked a few times. Behind the window there was no longer a field, but a somber forest. </p><p>He crawled out of the car and expanded his arms, yawning. They headed towards the house. </p><p>Øystein tinkered with the obsolete lock, humming some melody quietly. The door opened with a long creak and the Norwegian flooded inside. </p><p>“You coming?” he asked, holding the door. The frosty wind took its chance and invited itself into the house, pricking Øystein’s already redden face. Pelle was looking at the moon with a thoughtful expression. </p><p>After a moment he entered the house too. Then he headed straight upstairs. </p><p>He rushed into his room, as if there was an urgency. He looked around; It smelled so fresh in there, it almost didn’t feel like his room. But, his things were still there. Even the mess on the desk was left untouched. </p><p>There were footsteps coming from the staircase, before Øystein appeared, somewhat hastily.  </p><p>“Oh yeah, about that.” He eyed the empty space in front of them. “We threw out your mattress, because...” He rolled his mouth in a thin line. “Yeah. But you can sleep on my bed until we find you something new.” </p><p>Pelle nodded slowly but didn’t move from the spot. </p><p>“How are you feeling?” he questioned, once again. Mother hen. </p><p>“Tired.” </p><p>Øystein stepped out of the room and held the door to his room open. </p><p>“Well then, be my guest.”  </p><p>Pelle walked in slowly and dropped onto the bed. It was comfortable; way more comfortable than his mattress. He slipped off the sweater that Øystein gave him and decided to stay in his Sodom long sleeve. The room was chilly. </p><p>The Norwegian leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed, his eyes piercing through the distance between them. </p><p> </p><p>Well, what was he supposed to do? It’d be weird if he said he’s going to sleep in the same room as Pelle, because he’s worried. No, he wasn’t <em> worried </em>. He just couldn’t trust him. But on the other hand, there were no things that he could’ve harmed himself with. So, maybe he could just let him be and then check on him in a couple minutes? </p><p>He bounced off the doorframe and stood on both his feet. He’s gonna be fine. </p><p>“Wait,” the Swede’s voice echoed behind him. “Wait, I have to tell you something.”</p><p>Øystein walked up to the bed. He was curious, but suddenly also uneasy. Pelle looked pale. </p><p>“I talked to my mother when I was in the hospital," he swallowed nervously. “She, ah...She wants me to go back to Sweden.” </p><p>Silence fell over both of them. The blonde was looking at the ground, visibly conflicted with what he just said.  </p><p>“I mean, you wanted to go back to Swede for some time now, right?” <em>No. No. No, come on.</em> What was Mayhem supposed to do without Pelle? He was the driving force here. Without him everything’s going to go to shit! </p><p>“I-” “I don’t know,” Pelle choked out. He was stiff, crumbled in the corner. Øystein’s heart clenched at his broken voice. He sat next to him.</p><p>“Why does she want you to go back?” </p><p>The vocalist made an awkward movement with his hands, before wrapping them around his knees again. “She said it’d be best if I went to school there. And she wants me to get... Help.” </p><p>“That’s,” <em> fucking terrible. </em> What do you mean school? So you’re going to abandon the band? Leave to Sweden for at least a couple years? You can’t do that! “Good.”  </p><p>The Swede turned to him abruptly, a mix of surprise and confusion scattered on his face. </p><p>“What do you mean ‘good’?” Pelle’s voice cracked. Øystein was about to answer, but when he saw his flushed face and glossy eyes, his voice died in his throat.  </p><p>“I don’t need fucking help! There’s no way to help me! Why won’t you stupid people just understand?” As soon as he lashed out, he collapsed back onto the wall behind him again, clenching his fists on his sleeves. “I-” </p><p>Øystein grabbed him by the shoulders. “Pelle. I’d rather have you alive in Sweden than dead in Norway.” </p><p>The vocalist stared him dead in the eye, trembling slightly. His eyes were shining in the faint light and when he squeezed them shut, tears rolled down his cheeks. “Fucking-” He inhaled sharply, wiping his face with his palms. </p><p> </p><p>He wished he never remembered. He wished it all would just end. He wished he wasn’t alive. </p><p>He convulsed, his head ringing with thoughts. “I just don’t see it,” he cried. It was hard to breathe. “I was- I was supposed to be dead.” </p><p>“But you’re not, fortunately.” Øystein shivered at the thought. “There’s...” </p><p>“What do they want to- What will the do with me?” Pelle suppressed a sob. “If I’m not this, then what am I?” </p><p><em> Nothing. </em> </p><p>The covers rustled as Øystein shifted himself closer to the vocalist. He embraced him cautiously.  </p><p>“You’re you. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what’s there about death that’s so appealing to you, but...” He looked for fitting words, if there were any. “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know? You can get better. But you need help. Medical help.” </p><p>Pelle limply gave into the touch, thin streams of water staining the Norwegian’s collar. He unconsciously clenched to the other’s shirt, feeling like his head was about to burst from all the pressure.  </p><p>Medical help, whatever that meant. He didn’t have the headspace to process anything, so he didn’t answer. There were, once again, just way too many thoughts with no direction to them. His chest was stinging, and his clenched fists were shaking. And despite the low temperature in the room, he felt way too warm. Almost dizzy. </p><p>A hand ran through his hair gently, taking the wet blonde locks out of his face. He burst out crying again. It’s all that human touch that made him feel so weak. Or maybe just human? Still, unbearable. </p><p>It crossed his mind how embarrassing the whole scene was, but the thought repelled just as quickly. It didn't matter; maybe it was the last night they spent together in this house.</p><p>He turned his head to rest his cheek in the crook of Øystein’s neck. His skin was also very warm, probably from all his tears. He sighed heavily. </p><p>“So, I won’t see Helvete...” he attempted to say, but his voice broke into a whisper. </p><p>“Don’t worry." Øystein made a pause. Pelle pulled away to look at him. He was... smiling. "It’ll be all up and running for when you come back.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Ave! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s good to hear you got into the school. You were taking so damn long to answer I thought they locked you up in a hospital for mentals or something! And don’t tell me anything more about your doctor. I do <span class="u">not</span> want to be called as a witness for when you murder her (but it’s better if you don’t?).  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes, Helvete is open! It’s been a couple of months, actually. I moved in with Faust and Samoth (EMPEROR’s drummer and guitarist. Evil band!). We work here, live here... we even have a basement where we sacrifice posers to Satan. It’s going great. And I have already signed some bands on my label. One of them is this crazy guy who insisted on recording everything on his own...! His name is Kristian, but he calls himself COUNT GRISHNACKH. And the band is called BURZUM. I’m throwing in his demo, it’s fucking great!!! But don’t tell him I did it, he would flip his shit if he knew I sent you this copy, hehe.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, don’t ask me if I could sign your band on DSP! I’m assuming you’re coming back to Mayhem?! But if you were to send me some shitty material, it better be brutal. Also keep in mind I’m pretty much broke right now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s more and more people asking about you. I already got at least two letters mourning your death! The rumors are out of control. And we still haven’t found a good replacement for you. But it doesn’t matter, because right now we’re focused on making the new album. So, we’re working on the riffs, drums, etc. Necro is busy doing whatever, so the basslines have to wait. (Although, I could probably record them myself...) </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ok, I have to go now, lots of stuff to do, more letters to write! Stay evil and shit. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>War and Sodomy, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Euronymous </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Øystein lied his pen down with satisfaction. He reached for an envelope. On his desk, there was a stock of letters looming over him like a tower, waiting to be sent to their respected adressees. It was this time of the week – Euronymous, the mailman.  </p><p>He grabbed all the papers and threw them into a plastic bag, just to make sure he won’t lose anything. When he was about to head out into the shop, Bård swinged from behind the wall, stopping Øystein the doorway.  </p><p>“Holy fu- You almost gave me a heart attack!”  </p><p>“Are you going to the post box?” he asked with no remorse for the guitarist’s weak nerves, his eyes pointing at the plastic bag. </p><p>“Yeah,” Øystein answered bitterly. He knew what was coming. </p><p>“Could yooou...” </p><p>“Sure.” He rolled his eyes. Doing favors was not a leader’s thing to do, but how could he say ‘no’ to the kid?  </p><p>Bård went jumping to where their bunkbed was, to his drawer. Øystein followed sluggishly. He locked his stare on the blocky TV crumbled in the corner of Bård’s bed, where some kind of gory horror movie was plying. He frowned when an obnoxious monster on the screen started to maul a woman’s body, making disgusting gobbling sounds, while her agonizing screams beamed from the tiny speakers.  </p><p>“Here. Thank you!” Bård chirped, slipping his envelopes into Øystein’s bag. He, startled, grunted something along the lines of ‘whatever’.  </p><p>“But watch the counter!” the guitarist warned, before he slammed the bulky door behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Bård plopped back onto his bed. Since he lost a few precious minutes of the brutal blood spill, he leaned over to rewind the tape. When he just managed to get himself comfortable, someone entered the shop. He decided to ignore it - he had more important things to do right now. </p><p>“Hallo?” an uncertain voice called. The drummer let out a heavy dragged-out sigh, before forcing himself off the bed. </p><p>He walked up to the counter, ready to serve the customer the coldest, ugliest and evil ‘hello’ they’ve ever heard. That was until he saw what they were about to buy. </p><p>“I-I’d like to buy this,” the girl in front of him mumbled, gently shoving Emperor’s EP on the wooden surface.  </p><p>Bård smirked proudly, taking the record into his hands. “That’s a great choice.” </p><p>“It is? I chose it because I liked the logo...” she explained. The drummer smiled once again, ready to enlighten her.  “...It kinda looks like Mayhem’s logo. I’ve seen them live and they’re awesome,” she added thoughtfully, pouting her lip. Bård’s smile stagnated on his face. </p><p>“No, it doesn’t!” he remarked, offended. The customer, caught off guard, looked at him surprised. </p><p>“It does... a bit,” she murmured, her brown eyes focused on the black cover “It’s not a bad thing, Mayhem is cool.” </p><p>The drummer stared at her as shock and betrayal painted on his face. <em>Mayhem is cool.</em> He knew Mayhem was cool! But you know what’s cooler?! My band, Emperor!!! Did she really pick it <em>solely </em>because of the logo’s resemblance to the Mayhem logo?! No friend’s recommendation? No <em>awesome gig</em>?  </p><p>He took a deep breath. Sometimes you must excuse mortals’ lack of knowledge. “Actually, I’m Emperor’s-” </p><p>
  <em>SLAM </em>
</p><p>Varg burst into the shop with a swing. </p><p>“Faust you will not believe this! I got it!” </p><p>The man slammed his hand on the counter, the look of victory in his eyes. The girl looked at Bård askingly, at which he just shrugged. </p><p>“I got it.” He repeated, smiling devilishly. “I-” </p><p>“Wait, I’m in the middle of something here.” </p><p>When he turned around, the money was already lying on the counter. The customer smiled awkwardly as he handed her the album. “Hey, thanks! Come again!” he called after her, but she's already headed outside. </p><p>“You idiot," Bård scoffed. "She was buying my album,” he complained quietly, furrowing his eyebrows. </p><p>“It doesn’t matter. I got <em>the tape.</em>” Varg emphasized, the smug grin back on his face. </p><p>“What tape?” Was it some new kick-ass band? Was it a new mind-blowing demo? Was is it a record that was about to change the world? </p><p>“The snuff film, haha! I got it.” Vikernes laughed grimly, shoving a blank nameless VHS-packaging forward. “Okay, where’s the TV. I have to roll it.”  </p><p>He went behind the counter and then disappeared behind the wall. Bård rushed after him. </p><p>“Wait, no! I don’t want to watch your stupid snuff film!”  </p><p>Varg crashed onto the bed, about to take out Bård’s beloved horror movie. </p><p>“Stop right there!” he called, before jumping to attack. Vikernes attempted to push him off, but Bård was merciless. He muffled a ‘get the fuck off me’ with his hand and finally tackled Varg to the other side of the bed.  </p><p>“<em>Child.</em>” Varg hissed, narrowing his eyes. Bård froze in front of the player in a defensive position. </p><p>“You’re literally just a year older,” he reminded, hostility in his voice. When his enemy shifted, the drummer jolted, ready to defend his precious. “Watch it somewhere-fuckin-else. I've been trying to finish this movie the whole day, but nobody lets me!”  </p><p>“What’s this about?” </p><p>Tomas and Vegard were suddenly in the room too, eyeing the two as if they grew tentacles, or an additional pair of hands. </p><p>“What are <em>you </em>doing here?” Bård asked skeptically, like it was some big conspiracy going on there. In situations like this, even your closest bandmates cannot be trusted. </p><p>“I live here, you know,” Tomas answered with a suspicious lopsided grin. Something bad was about to happen. “So, do you have the tape?”  </p><p>“Of course,” smiling Varg waved the said tape in the air. Bård tried to grab it, but he raised his hand higher. </p><p>“Well then, put it on! It better be bloody.” </p><p>Tomas grabbed his unprepared to fight drummer under the arms and threw him off his own bed. Then, if that wasn’t enough, Vegard pinned him down, just for fun apparently. </p><p>“Noooooo....!” Bård cried when he heard his tape being ejected. He attempted to kick the all-mighty Vegard, but all in vain.  </p><p>“Shut up, Faust. Aren’t you into serial killers and shit?” Tomas asked, getting comfy on the bed. Varg was already putting the stupid snuff film in... </p><p>“I am! But right now, I want to watch <em>my </em>movie on <em>my </em>TV! Can’t I?!” he struggled against the hands holding him. “Ihashn, you! You traitor! Why are you working with them?!” Bård could not stand this treachery. </p><p>“I don’t know dude,” he shrugged. “I kind of want to watch a real snuff film.” </p><p>The three gathered in front of the player, while Bård lied there on the ground in great emotional pain. It was some big conspiracy going on there after all.  </p><p>He took his strategical position back at the counter. Life is unfair. Especially when you have to live among edgy teenagers (like himself). </p><p>There was no one in the shop so, bored, he started snooping around the counter’s drawers. There were mostly interviews and letters Øystein was yet to answer, or finish answering. Tons of them. The guitarist was a busy man when it came to letters and the band’s promotion. Usually, he kept all his stuff in his office, but sometimes, he was writing letters even on his shifts in the shop. It seemed like he wrote more than he played the guitar. </p><p>In one of the top drawers, there was a crumbled piece of paper. It caught Bård’s attention, since all of the other documents were more or less neatly stocked on the top of each other. He succumbed to his curiosity and unfolded the paper ball. </p><p>“<em>Ave,</em>” he snorted. This greeting screamed: ‘I am Euronymous and I write a shit ton of letters like some main character of a romance novel, but I’m going to make it trve kvlt.’ </p><p>He read line after line of the hand-written text, stopping every now and then to decipher illegible parts. It seemed like it was written in a rush, and there was a lot of crossed out words. Not a very Øystein thing to do. </p><p>“<em>You still haven’t answered my last letter, I hope you’re ok,</em>” read the first sentence. Bård blinked a few times, his eyes lingering on the words. “Yada, yada, <em>I wish you could see Helvete</em>, yada...” He skipped through to the closing part. “<em>...so I guess I miss you a lot! Weird, huh? You start valuing people much more when you lose them, now I see that. But enough of that sentimental shit. I don’t think I could ever say that out loud, so I’m just gonna write it down right now...</em>” </p><p>“Hoooly fuck. Oh my god,” he muttered, putting the letter down. He felt his lips form into a big, big grin. </p><p>He didn’t even notice that somebody walked up to the counter. </p><p> </p><p>Øystein’s heart froze, before his blood started boiling and he got warm all over again. What was that little fucker doing?! </p><p>“HEY.” He snatched the paper out of Bård’s grabby hands. He knew perfectly what letter that was. </p><p>And the moron just covered his face, laughing. </p><p>“Oh, Øystein! You’re so romantic!” he wailed, while the guitarist’s fierce look was drilling a hole through his forehead. “So, who’s the princess of darkness, Euronymous?” </p><p>“I’m going to knock your fucking head off,” he snarled. But, he didn’t condone violence against children, so he just angrily walked past Bård into his office. He was going to take care of him later.</p><p>He stopped by his desk and looked at the letter again. <em>Sigh.</em></p><p>He fucking wished there was a princess. </p><p>. </p><p>. </p><p>. </p><p>.</p><p>“Huh? What happened?” Vegard peeked from behind the wall, before he walked up to Bård. </p><p>“I found Øystein’s love letter,” the drummer smirked, but then he remembered that he hated Vegard at the moment. “Wait, wait, you traitor, you. Is the snuff film boring or something, hm?”  </p><p>“Nah... Turns out it’s just porn.” </p>
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